I Will Cry No More
by texas2step
Summary: An insight into Johnny's life from the time he is a little boy to the time he is recovering from Pardee's bullet.


**I Will Cry No More**

Part 1

The child crawled into the back door that led into the alley. Fear made him oblivious to the smells that permeated the air. The rancid smell of rotting garbage competed with the pungent smell of human waste coming from the communal latrine; the sludge running in a slow-moving stream down the center of the narrow alley.

Strangely, he felt safe there; knowing that most likely he would not be discovered since no one ventured down the alley unless they were too drunk to notice where they were walking.

He had taken refuge here before when the giants had invaded their small home. His mother never seemed to notice the abuse or didn't seem to care as she never scolded anyone for hitting or kicking him. He had gotten pretty good at running before his mother's men could catch him but sometimes like tonight he would get cornered and his escape would not be without a fair amount of pain.

He tenderly fingered the bruise on his face where the big man had back handed him. Then while his head was reeling from the blow he had been kicked; knocking him into the wall. The only thing that saved him from further torture was that he had landed near the door. He scrambled out on unsteady little legs as quickly as his abused little body would allow and made his way to the alley.

The little boy shivered in the night air, not from the cold, but from the pain and the fear of the brutality he had just faced. His little body shook as he began to cry he felt so alone. Tears ran down his face making tracks on his dusty cheeks. He heard the mice as they scurried among the garbage and he didn't dare close his eyes. One of the giants had told him that rats and mice like to eat the toes and fingers of bastard niños. He would sleep tomorrow when the sun was up and the little shack once again belonged to just his mamma and him. She would be sleeping off the bottle of tequila she shared with the giant and wouldn't bother to yell at him to find them food.

He would cry tonight. No one would hear him and no one would care. One day he would be a big pistolero with a big gun. He would walk among the giants and they would fear him and he would cry no more.

Part 2

The cantina was filled with smoke and the smell of unwashed bodies mixed with beer and tequila; along with the musk of the whores who serviced the men in the dark corners without the benefit of a bed or a door. Still it was cooler inside and it offered sanctuary from a bed on the hard ground and a meal of jerky and stale hardtack.

The young gunfighter chose a table at the back of the cantina. His hat was pulled low obscuring a view of his young face. The corner was shadowed and his back was to the wall. It was a lesson he quickly learned by example. More than once he had watched a man die from behind and nothing would spoil an appetite quicker than getting shot in the back.

Even though he had only been wearing the gun for a few months he had already been able to prove his worth. They were only small jobs helping some of the poorer farmers trying to hold onto land that had caught the eye of someone who had too much and wanted more.

The boy was still smarting a bit from not being allowed tequila by the wife of the owner. She had insisted he eat a plate full of beans and tortillas before allowing him one beer. His usual charm had failed to get around the Señora; who had decided that he must need the attention of a mamma if only for a night. It was a sting to his manhood, but he was so hungry he decided it was a small price to pay for hot food. The final insult had been when she had called him a probe niño perdido **.**

He knew she meant well and deep inside it felt good to have someone to fuss over him a little bit and show concern for his wellbeing. It had been a long time since anyone cared what he ate or drank. His mama had cared at one time but that had changed long before she had died at the hand of one of the many men she entertained for the price of a bottle and companionship.

The young man sat alone nursing the now slightly warm beer. He knew it would be the only one the _Señora_ would allow him so he tried to make it last. As he casually sipped from the mug he realized the cantina had suddenly grown very quiet and he only had to look towards the door to find the reason staring at him from across the room.

He continued to sip on his beer; aware that as the large bandit approached he was quickly becoming the center of attention. The young gunfighter continued to appear causal and unconcerned. As the burly bandit tramped his way through the small cantina he grabbed a bottle of tequila from a table where a couple of _vaqueros_ were sitting and tossed them a warning glare if they chose to protest. The other patrons from the cantina parted like the Red Sea, allowing him access to the table in the back corner. The boy caught his breath as this giant from his past approached his table. Santiago hooked the chair nearest him with his foot and pulled it out and sat down heavily causing the chair that was too small for his large girth to creak in protest.

"I didn't invite you to sit down," came the quiet reprimand from the boy.

The cantina had grown quiet when Santiago entered; but now the tension was beginning to roll in like fog from the shores of an ocean. No one breathed as they waited for the boy who had spoken so boldly to die.

Suddenly the giant of a man laughed at the audacity of one so small and so young. He treated the impudence from the boy like a big joke and soon others joined in but the tension continued to rise in spite of the laughter. The young man continued to sip his beer seemingly unconcerned or unnerved by the mockery.

"You should scoot home niño. Your mama, she will call you for bed, no?" Santiago began to laugh again which caused another round of laughter from the puppets that surrounded the table.

"No!" came a cold response. "You made sure of that."

The giant stopped laughing and began to look at the insolent youth with narrowed eyes. Something about the boy seemed familiar and the chill that consumed him caused him to shiver slightly. He continued to stare knowing that their paths had crossed and an uneasy feeling began to creep up the back of his neck.

"Your mama didn't teach you very good manners, niño," he growled; the menace clear in his tone.

"Maybe you want to teach me some," the boy answered back, the smile not reaching his eyes. The cantina had once again grown quiet as the tension level raised another notch. Surely the boy was signing his own death warrant.

Those who had crowded close to see the action now moved off to the sides. No one wanted to get in the way of the gunplay they knew was inevitable. The joke was over and the laughter had stopped. The giant stood up; knocking the chair over and holding the bottle of tequila he had snatched. He backed up and watched as the kid stood up slowly and seemingly without a care in the world.

"Maybe you would like to finish your drink, niño, before I send you to hell." Santiago took a swig out of the bottle; waiting for the kid to run away. When he lowered the jug, the surprise was evident in his eyes. The kid had not moved.

No one breathed. Time seemed to stand still as everyone froze in place.

And then it was over. The sound of one shot echoed through the room and before the sound dissipated the boy's weapon was already back in its holster.

Santiago stood straight, unflinching; but the look of total surprise washed across his face. The over-powering smell of cordite and blood mingled with the odor of sweat and the smoke from the brown-papered _cigarillos_ that were now dangling unsmoked from the fingers of the many bar room patrons. Everyone was holding their breath.

Blood spread across the giant's chest; and the bottle slipped from his lifeless fingers. He stayed on his feet for a time, like a puppet suspended from intricate strings that had become tangled.

And then the unseen tethers broke. Santiago crashed forward and down onto the debris litter floor; he head bouncing twice before it settled against the now stained plank floor.

His eyes were open; wide. Still alive but aware he was dying, he stared up at the boy; still trying to remember where he had seen the youth before. And then the light of recognition came and just as quickly died.

The man was dead.

The kid picked up his beer and finished it in two slow swallows. Then, surveying the crowd, he tipped his head a bit and touched the brim of his hat; as if he was simply saying good-bye.

He was smiling when he swung open the batwings and stepped out onto the board walk; but the smile quickly faded. Drawing in a deep breath, he looked up at the moonless sky. "I sent him to Hell, Mama," he breathed. "I sent him to Hell."

Composing himself, he dropped down into the street and stood beside his horse for a time; taking comfort from the animal's closeness and resting his head against its neck. And then, not even using the stirrup, he swung himself up into the saddle.

He rode straight out of town. He never looked back

~*~ L ~*~ A ~*~ N ~*~ C ~*~ E ~*~ R ~*~

The boy sat close to the fire wishing he could warm up. The night was hot but he was wrapped in the blanket shivering like he was sitting on a block of ice. He watched as the fire crackled and sparks flew; disappearing into the dark night. Tears rolled down his young face as images of his mother and the giant merged into a pool of blood. There would be no sleep for him tonight. The end of his innocence had come with that one shot. His first kill wasn't like he thought it would be. For the last five years he had prepared himself for this. He had vowed the night he found his mother he would get justice for what had happened. And now, huddled in his blanket; he rocked back and forth, trying to stop the tears that he couldn't control.

The sky began to show shades of light pink and orange as the sun began to emerge from the darkness. He broke camp and saddled up, stowing his bedroll securely behind. Mounting his horse, he sat for a time; staring in the direction of the village where he had found and slain the giant from his past, and wondering why he had not escaped the pain. Unbidden, the tears came once again; his shoulders shaking as he sobbed. Deep in his chest; a great ache building he did not understand. He had avenged his mother, had killed the beast; but the pain was still there.

Stubbornly, he scrubbed the tears from his face and turned his horse in the opposite direction. His heart hardening, he made himself a promise. From this day forward he would cry no more.

Part 3

He was lying in a bed; a big soft bed. People were constantly moving around him and some were hovering. He was uneasy about not being able to control what was happening but he had no strength; and he was tired. So damned tired. Most of the time he woke up just to find that time had slipped away; but the hovering had increased.

Sometimes there would be pain; but most of the time there was just the feeling he was floating in some limbo between life and death. He knew they were dosing him with laudanum, but couldn't fight them off or even fuss about it. Sometimes just water was offered, and he was disappointed when too quickly it was taken away. They scolded him then, gently, admonishing him about taking too much and making himself sick.

During the few times he did resurface long enough to open his eyes he would see the giant of a man that was his father. The man wasn't like the other giants he had encountered in his young life. His voice wasn't cruel or taunting, calling him casta or _bastardo_. This this giant was his father. Murdoch didn't seem anything like the man who had greeted him in the _hacienda's_ Great Room the first morning after his arrival. Instead of being gruff and severe this man was kind and gentle showing a trace of concern that brought back long buried memories; good memories that troubled him even more than the bad.

Big hands cradled his head as liquids were offered. Big, gentle hands that didn't try to hit or crush him. Big hands laid gently on his forehead checking for a fever or brushing back too long bangs that had hidden his eyes.

Big hands that caressed his cheek, lingered; cradling his own slightly smaller hand to offer reassurance that he wasn't alone.

Sometimes when he could grasp onto the world long enough, he would watch as his father slept in a chair next to his bed. He watched each breath his father took as his massive chest rose and fell in perfect cadence.

He couldn't help but smile when the giant occasionally snorted, startling himself awake and immediately checking to see if he had awakened his son. He'd settle back into the chair and fall asleep just as quickly as he had wakened; and it would all begin again.

 _Murdoch sure could snore_. And somehow, the boy found it comforting, even familiar.

The hours of the day seemed to run together and yet every time he opened his eyes Murdoch was there tending his needs; like a real father caring for a child he loved. That caused him to think, to remember. Teresa had told him he was wrong about what had happened when he was just a toddler; that Murdoch hadn't thrown him and his mama out. Could that be true? Had he lived all these years with lies? It made no sense to him that his mother would tell him such lies; and for what reason? Why would she say those things and make them live like hunted animals? Always slipping away in the dead of night with no explanation. Why would she give up a home and love from a man who could provide more than a hut with dirt floors to sleep on? A man who could provide meals that didn't have to be swiped when an unsuspecting store keeper wasn't looking?

The young man thought hard about his life and the things he had learned since coming to Lancer; what he was experiencing while he healed. So much of the unexplained now seemed clear: his mother had left on her own and dragged him along. She had denied him a life with a father who really loved him. Let her hatred for this man spill over to drown her child and set him on a painful path that would haunt him for as long as he lived.

The real truth was Murdoch had always wanted him. That his father had searched for him and spent a life time as well as a small fortune paying for Pinkerton Agents to locate him. His father had never stopped loving him or looking for him.

A single tear escaped from the corner of the boy's right eye and began a slow trickle down his cheek; pooling against the sweat-curled dark hair that framed his ear. Why had his mother taken all of this away? Why had she forced him to live like an animal when he could have lived like a person of worth? No answers came, only tears and a single, soft sob that came from the depth of his being. Before he could hide the tears, his father woke; aware of the blue eyes watching him.

Murdoch reached out, gently thumbing away the trail of jewel-like tears trailing down the boy's cheek. "What's this about? Are you in pain?" More gentle words with concern edging each one. "Where do you hurt, son? Show me." His large hand was now cradling Johnny's face.

Johnny leaned into this father's touch and closed his eyes. "Here," he whispered softly. He tapped two fingers against his chest above his heart. Opening his eyes, he stared up at his father and repeated the words. "I hurt here." Again, his fingers thumped against his chest. No more words were needed. A peaceful calm settled between father and son. A small hand now rested secure in a bigger hand; Murdoch assuring his son that he was safe and secure. The promise of a new life lay open to them now; a life filled with hope and a love that had been snatched away. Together they would take back what had been stolen so many years ago.

2016


End file.
